“Sorry.” He spun us around, reaching behind me for a towel, and then wrapped it around me.
“Thanks,” I said, tightening the towel, and he took a step back, thank God.
When he reached forward and brushed a strand of hair off my bare shoulder, I inhaled sharply at the contact. As much as I wanted to dislike him, I couldn’t. He kept doing nice things that had me doubting everything I thought I knew about men. I didn’t know what to believe anymore. That was more reason than ever for me to keep my distance. At least until I figured all this out.
“As pale as moonbeams.” His touch lingered on my skin, and I trembled. He took another unsteady step back and said, “You’d better get dressed.”
He should talk. His clothes were soaked. “Here you go.” I handed him a spare towel and my robe. My rather small, pink terrycloth, splattered with white lambs robe. “Sorry. It’s all I have.” I snickered. Served him right for barging in on me. “There’s a dryer in the laundry room next door when you’re finished. I’ll change in Gloria’s room.”
“Thanks.” He took the girly garment and grimaced.
I left him alone in the bathroom and tried to imagine him wearing the robe, but all I could picture was a cross-dresser in a Broadway musical called, Callie Had a Little Lamb.
Ten minutes later, I emerged from Gloria’s room, feeling human again in an oversized T-shirt and sweats.
Someone pounded on my front door. “Let me in, Mac.”
Dylan? What on earth did he do, lock himself out? I went to the door, opened it wide, then burst out laughing. Hot Britches stood naked--except for my way-too-small, make-him-look-like-a-transvestite robe and his snakeskin boots.
“Ha. Ha. Forgot my quarters in my wallet, which happens to be in my coat. The coat I let you wear.”
I grinned. Payback was sooo much fun.
A few of my neighbors chose that moment to walk by, and Dylan flattened his back against the wall as if doing so would make him magically invisible. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost. My neighbors’ eyes bugged and they gave Dylan a wide berth, staring at him as if he’d sprouted a pair of breasts.
I glanced down, assuring myself that he hadn’t, but he had left his drag queen digs slightly open. And there was the proof that he hadn’t had a sex change, poking its big ole one-eyed winkie head out. Bet he regretted ever trying to be nice to me now.
Callie had a little lamb, all right, and he wanted to come out and play, by the looks of it. The big guy had no idea playtime was over, with me, anyway.
God, how did I let him know his zucchini was showing without embarrassing us both? “Um, peek-a-boo.”
“Peek-a-boo?” He arched a black brow.
“I, uh, see you?” I chewed my bottom lip and pointed down.
When his gaze followed suit, he cursed, then clamped his legs together and tried like heck to pull my robe tighter. Yeah, not working there for you, buddy. Maybe if Mr. Winkie would quit standing at attention, it would help. I had no intention of sleeping with Dylan, but hey, I still had a project to do. And that was a genuine zucchini in the flesh, nothing rubber about it.
Sorry, Jack. Dylan wins.
Dylan cursed again, clutching the robe in strategic places, but Mr. Winkie insisted on being seen, bobbing and weaving every time Dylan moved. All that embarrassment still hadn’t killed his erection. Now that was impressive.
He charged past me into my apartment and headed straight for my dresser. “This isn’t going to work. I look like a damn pansy. Got any baggy shorts?”
Interesting. Apparently, external appearances were important for a zucchini to feel like a man. It made sense, since they put a great deal of value on the size of their winkies. Joining him, I kept my gaze locked on my dresser and rummaged through my drawers, trying to keep a straight face.
I hadn’t done laundry yet, so the only shorts I had clean were my wishful thinking, never-gonna-see-the-light-of-day, purple spandex biker shorts.
“Try these. They might stretch to fit you.” I glanced at the part of the robe he strangled to death, and swallowed a snort. “I think.”
“Don’t think, just give me the damn things.” He eyed the shorts warily.
“Or you could just wrap a towel around yourself.”
“I think I’ve played enough peek-a-boo for one day,” he grumbled and headed into the bathroom to change.
Running to the laundry room, I started the dryer, then booked it back to my apartment, not about to miss his grand entrance.
Pacing around my living room, I thought about my project. Flasher Freak had a pickle and he went around molesting people, probably because no woman would willingly give it to him. So maybe pickles made men desperate. Then there was Dylan. He had a zucchini, and probably had sex all the time. Maybe it was so good that he couldn’t get enough. That had certainly been the case with Bob. So maybe zucchinis made men obsessed. Maybe the answer to normalcy was a cucumber.
I glanced at the bathroom door. And they said women took forever to get ready. How long could it possibly take a man to throw on a pair of shorts?
Finally, the door creaked open, and Dylan stuck his head out like a reluctant groundhog. “Come on, Dukeypoo. How bad can the shorts be?”
He hesitated, then sighed in what could only be resignation and pushed the door the rest of the way open.
Sweet Jesus! He might as well be naked.
I stared in amazement. The man made bull-riders look like stick figures--bronzed sculpted chest, broad shoulders, tapered waist, and a washboard set of abs to die for. My gaze dropped helplessly lower, and my jaw unhinged.
Still standing somewhat at attention, Mr. Winkie was fully outlined, giving me more than just a peek. No wonder he’d taken forever in the bathroom.
Note to self: Zucchinis take a very long time to deflate.
Dylan cleared his throat.
I couldn’t help it. I stared, fascinated.
“Yoohoo, Callie. I’m up here, remember?”
“H-Huh? Oh, right, I’m sorry. It’s just... wow.” I shot a look at his face, and felt mine flood with heat. “Well, now you know how women feel when guys stare at their breasts.” Hey, turnabout was fair play. He’d certainly seen enough of me for one evening. “Your clothes shouldn’t take too much longer to dry. Bet you could use a drink.”
“Ya think?” He threw my words back at me.
So I threw his back at him. “Don’t get short with me. I’m not the one who decided to take a swan dive into my bathtub.” I headed into the kitchen.
“Cute.”
“I thought so.” I laughed, watching him drop down on the sofa and rub his palms over his cheeks then stroke his goatee.
“Make mine something strong. It’s been a hell of an evening.”
“That’s putting it mildly, but all I have are Bahama Mamas.” I fixed two drinks, sticking little umbrellas in each, thinking they’d go perfectly with his outfit. He arched a brow, and I bit back a grin as I carried the drinks, then halted, watching the muscles play in his biceps as he moved his arms.
Eyeing the chair and the couch, I tried to decide where to sit. I couldn’t sit across from him and keep my eyes from wandering lower. That was just asking too much now that I knew what he looked like, so that left only one solution. I plopped down on the couch beside him and handed him a tall glass and then snatched the fleece throw off the back and draped it over us both. Problem solved. Out of sight, out of mind.
Sort of.
His thigh bumped mine. He glanced at the blanket and then back up to me. Staring at him, I swallowed. Bad, bad idea. Cozying up together on a couch under a blanket screamed intimacy. I knew he was all wrong for me, and I wasn’t ready to be in another relationship, but I felt myself slipping under his spell. No matter how hard I fought it.
He downed his drink in four gulps and I matched him in five, then he slammed his empty glass on the table and stared at me, waiting. Desire radiated between us until I couldn’t take it any longer.
To heck with it. We all had issu
es.
We reached for each other simultaneously and embraced. It felt like heaven.
Dylan’s mouth swooped down to cover mine as he leaned back and pulled me on his lap. I straddled him, jolting over the contact.
Oh, my God. He was huge.
Desire ripped through me, and I gasped. I wanted him like I’d never wanted anyone. A scary thought that he obliterated by running his hands over my face. He swept my hair back behind my ears and then slid his palms down to cup my jaw. His laser beams locked onto mine, and he plunged his tongue deep.
No one had ever kissed me with their eyes open. It was somehow more intimate than anything else he’d done.
The yummy flavors of coconut rum, grenadine, orange juice and pineapple juice, mixed with a spice that was purely Dylan, burst over my taste buds. My heart slammed against my ribs as I battled his tongue with my own, wanting more. My hips started to move of their own accord, and my hands smoothed over his hair then tugged his ponytail free. Thrusting my fingers into the thick, dark-chocolate strands, I shivered.
He made a growling noise in his throat and dropped his hands to my butt. I stiffened, but then he groaned and squeezed me. He pulled me more intimately into his erection, and my breath hitched. He drove me wild. God, I couldn’t think clearly.
In one smooth move, he flipped me onto my back and I opened my eyes to lock with his. My God. I’d never seen so much passion. What he did to me scared the heck out of me, because I couldn’t be sure that he wasn’t just like the rest of the guys from my past. Only into the sex. Not into me. He dropped his head lower and kissed my nipple through my T-shirt until my eyes crossed. It was too much, too fast. I couldn’t breathe, for Pete’s sake.
When he started to slide my T-shirt up, I hooked my leg over his hip and rolled him off the couch.
“What the hell did you do that for?” He stared up at me from flat on his back as though I’d lost my mind.
“Sorry. Clumsy me. But since I’m up,” I sprang to my feet, “I, um, may as well check the clothes. We wouldn’t want your pants to shrink, would we?” I glanced at his Mr. Winkie, now at full attention once again. Double wow. I struggled to focus. “They’ll never fit.” I didn’t wait for an answer but bounced out of my apartment as fast as my rubber-band legs would carry me.
Ten minutes later, I returned slightly more composed. Until I locked eyes on Hot Britches again. He leaned against the wall, bare-chested with his hair hanging loose, smoothing his goatee and staring at me with hooded eyes. All he needed was an eye patch, and he’d be the pirate hero on the cover of a romance novel. An eye patch and something other than purple Spandex biker shorts, that is. And, okay, so the thin, chain-like tattoos circling his bulging biceps were pure contemporary, but hey, he could be a modern day pirate. And at this moment, I’d let him pillage just about anything.
I stared at his chest, and my hands itched to touch those same pecs that had warmed my fingers earlier. Stay strong, Cal. I’d been down this road before, only to wind up in the biggest mess of my life. Swallowing hard, I tried to slow my breathing. No pillage, bad pillage, pillage wrong.
He pushed away from the wall, and took a step toward me.
“H-Here. Your c-clothes. Change in bathroom.” I threw his things at his chest and then ran into the kitchen. Space. I needed lots and lots of space from this man. I could barely breathe when I was around him, let alone think.
“Callie, I--”
“You should go. It’s late.”
He narrowed his eyes. “This isn’t over.”
“This never should have started.”
He hardened his jaw. “Why not? We’re both adults, and for the record, I’m not looking for a one-night-stand. I happen to like you.”
“Yeah, that’s what they all say.”
He stared at me like he was trying to figure out his next move. “Forget it,” he muttered. “You’ve got issues.”
“I’ve got issues?” I glared at him. “You’re the one with the problem, and I know all about it.”
He had the nerve to chuckle. “The only problem I have right now is the mixed messages you keep sending me. One minute you want me, just like I want you.” He narrowed his eyes. “The next, you’re tossing me off the couch and telling me I’ve got problems.”
I looked away, and a moment later, he left the room. Relief flooded me. Wanting to use someone’s body for self-gratification was a problem, and from my experience, men only wanted to get close to me because of the scandal. They thought I was some porn queen who’d give them an experience of a lifetime.
Dylan might not know about the scandal, but I knew he only wanted sex. He was obsessed with it, and I was convenient. Not a good combination for getting my life back on track.
Five minutes later, he stepped out of the bathroom, looking just as delicious fully dressed as he had in almost nothing.
He slipped his still damp coat on and then peeked out my blinds. “Looks like my buddy’s done over there.” He faced me. “I doubt you’ll have a problem with that Peeping Tom again.” When he raised his eyes to mine, his were distant. “Sorry. I crossed the line.”
“You didn’t do it alone.” I gave him a shaky smile. “Figuring out what I want to do with my life is too important to me. I’m too old to keep screwing up, and honestly, I just can’t deal with this right now. Friends?”
“Sure,” he agreed. “Friends.” He stuck out his hand.
“Good.” I slipped mine in his, feeling the magnetic pull clear to my soul.
He shook once and then pulled his free. “I’ll let myself out. Don’t forget the gym tomorrow. And remember to lock the door behind me.”
“Always,” I responded, glad we’d come to an understanding. It was what I wanted, what I needed. But I hated to see him go. I locked the door behind him and just stood there, not having a clue what to do next. My head might say this was for the best, but my body sang the blues.
Big time.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The next morning, Professor Butthead smiled wide at our class. I tried to listen as his star pupil, Ms. I’ll-Brownnose-For-A-Good-Grade, gave her progress report on how AIDS affects today’s teenagers and their decision to have sex.
“Good job, Mindy. Keep going in that direction and you’ll have an excellent project. Well done.”
Well, no fooling, well done. How hard was it for a teenager to go around and ask other teenagers about sex, condoms, and AIDS? Try being a woman my age, getting a man to tell you the truth about how the size of his winkie affects his sex life. So far, the men I’d been able to talk to thought I was a nympho, and the teenagers thought I was desperate. Either way, I looked and felt like an idiot. I stared out the window and tried not to fall asleep.
“Ms. MacDonald,” a familiar voice echoed in my ears.
“Huh?” I turned. Professor Butthead stood inches from me, his breath reeking of leftover egg salad.
“Ms. MacDonald.” He glowered. “I realize you must think Mindy’s project doesn’t affect you since you’re hardly a teenager, but it’s rude not to pay attention, nonetheless.” He arched a brow as though daring me to say something.
Well, I wasn’t stupid. If I ticked this guy off any more, I’d fail for sure, and then I’d never get my answers. Besides, I was through failing at everything. I forced a smile and said, “I think she’s off to a good start; however, if I were her--”
“Well, you’re not. I suggest you worry about your own project. You’re the only one in class who hasn’t given a progress report on how you’re coming along.” He crossed his arms. “So, let’s hear it. Or aren’t you prepared?”
I was prepared to shout, You’re a jerk with a pickle, I’ll bet, but I only shook my head. Heat flooded my face, and the room full of bubbling girls and way-too-young-for-me boys tried not to laugh. God, I felt like I was back in high school.
“I thought not.” He gave me a smug smile. “You might want to step it up a notch. This projects counts for fifty percent of your grade.”
“Sorry,” I ground out, then kept my mouth shut before I said something I’d regret.
“Okay, I’d like you all to get into groups of four and discuss interview strategies to help those of you who are falling behind.” He looked right at me.
Three giggling teenyboppers formed a group with me. I tried to talk about interview questions, but they rambled on and on about shoes, clothes, and makeup. Like that would help me.
When I couldn’t take it anymore, I turned to look out the window and blinked. A strange woman paced around outside with something hanging out of her mouth, then she pulled the object out. I squinted, dying to know what it was. The woman glanced at it, shook it, then stuck it back in her mouth.
A thermometer? No way. I tried forcing myself to focus on the group activity but couldn’t get my mind off the woman taking her temperature in the middle of a snowstorm. Another wacko. I shook my head.
Big, fat snowflakes fluttered to the ground. Maybe the woman was mentally ill, or delirious. People hustled right by her, giving her funny glances and a wide berth, but no one stopped to question her. I guess I shouldn’t have thought her strange, with all the unique people in New York, but this was the third one this week. Well, if Thermometer Woman was there when class ended, I intended to avoid her as well.
Trust me, I’d learned my lesson.
After our meaningless activity ended, Professor Butthead went over a short recap on the format for our presentations and then dismissed the class with a final smirk in my direction. “Ms. MacDonald, unless you want points taken off for your progress report being late, I’d like to set up a private meeting.”
Great, he was gonna fail me for sure. “I’ll come in during your office hours as soon as I have it prepared.” As soon as I checked in with my Angels, that was.
“Make it soon, Callie. I have a busy schedule.”
I nodded, pressing my lips together, not daring to speak. His gaze ran over me in distain, then he left the classroom.
Note to self: Pickles and buttheads are one and the same.
He didn’t come out and say it, but he was setting me up to fail. He knew this topic was difficult for me because I’d told him so, yet he kept pushing me. He probably thought I’d quit, but he didn’t have a clue how stubborn I could be. And now that I was coming out of my shell, well, look out. There wasn’t much I wouldn’t do to succeed this time.
Project Produce Page 11
